


The Minting of a Gold-Crowned King

by inexplicifics



Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [21]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Gen, Missing Scene, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26206744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: Griffin did not expect to encounter Witchers in the stableyard.A long way away from Kaer Morhen, Emhyr var Emreis gets an interesting surprise.(Or, chapter 3 ofThe Shadow of the Mountains Will Not Fall, from outside Kaer Morhen.)
Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683661
Comments: 244
Kudos: 2375
Collections: The Best Fics I've Read





	The Minting of a Gold-Crowned King

Griffin is in the stables when the Witchers arrive. In the stables, in his oldest clothing, helping Old Bartosz muck out the stalls because Old Bartosz’s grandson _Young_ Bartosz has a fever and _someone_ has to help, or Old Bartosz will probably try to do it all himself and break something important, like a leg.

So Griffin is in the stables, listening with half an ear to Old Bartosz chunnering on about how it was back in _his_ day, when apparently the horses could muck out after themselves, when suddenly there’s quite a commotion out in the stableyard: the sounds of quiet conversation and the rhythmic clanging of the blacksmith’s hammer are replaced by shrill and terrified screams. He drops his pitchfork and goes sprinting out - his people don’t usually yell like this, like something’s on _fire_ \- to find that a _portal_ has opened in the middle of the stableyard, and six enormous Witchers have come striding through it, swords gleaming in their hands.

Oh, _gods_.

Griffin flings himself forward, pushing Antonina and Joanna behind him - the women had been beating out the rugs, but a _rug-beater_ is not going to make any sort of impression on a _Witcher_ \- and goes to his knees before the Witchers, spreading his arms wide in a hopefully-not-futile attempt to shield his people. There aren’t enough able-bodied men on his estate to fend off even a single Witcher, if the rumors of their ferocity are true, much less _six_ of them. If his people are to have any chance of surviving whatever this is - oh, gods, the Witchers look _furious_ , every last one of them, and at least one of the swords has blood dripping from the blade - then that chance relies entirely on Griffin surrendering quickly enough.

“My lords,” he gasps, “Hirundum surrenders, and begs the White Wolf’s mercy.”

The Witchers stand there for a long moment, staring down at him with unreadable yellow eyes, and then the one with the bloody sword and the truly horrible facial scars says, “And who’re you, to give Hirundum’s surrender?”

“I am Griffin, and I have the honor to hold this barony,” Griffin says, and braces himself. He’d have liked to have a few minutes to say his farewells to his mother and sisters, but if this is his death, and it keeps his people alive, then he’ll bare his neck to the blade without hesitation.

“What do you know of Henselt’s plot against the White Wolf?” demands the lead Witcher.

Griffin gapes. “The king - against the _Wolf_? Is he _mad_? Did he - why would he -” he breaks off when the Witcher raises a - thankfully empty - hand.

“You knew nothing,” the Witcher says thoughtfully.

“Nothing at all, my lord,” Griffin says, trying desperately to imagine what the king could have done that would result in Witchers coming _here_ , of all places - Hirundum is so far from Vizima, and so utterly nondescript, that the one time Griffin went to court, to offer his fealty upon his assumption of his father’s title, King Henselt didn’t even know where it _was_.

“Your great-grandmother was royal,” the Witcher says.

“...Yes, my lord,” Griffin says, baffled all over again. “She was the youngest sister of King Goidemar.” The youngest of _eight_ , which is the only reason she was allowed to marry someone so beneath her station as a minor baron from the back end of nowhere.

“Good enough,” the Witcher says, and the tip of the gleaming, bloody sword digs into the ground in front of Griffin’s knees. “Henselt is dead, and so are all his heirs in Vizima. Terminal cases of treasonous stupidity. Tried to assassinate the Wolf. Temeria is the Wolf’s, now.”

Griffin swallows hard. They did _what_? “Hail the White Wolf, Warlord of the North,” he says, hoping his voice won’t squeak. “Ruler of Kaedwen, Caingorn, Kovir, the top half of Aedirn, two-thirds of Redania, and the entirety of Temeria. I swear upon my life that I will be faithful to the White Wolf, Warlord of the North, never cause harm to him nor to those under his protection, and will observe my homage to him completely and without deceit.”

“Good answer,” says the lead Witcher, and all the other Witchers nod and grunt. “Congratulations. Get up. You’re the new king of Temeria.”

Griffin gapes up at him for a long moment, at an utter loss for words. “I - _what?_ ”

The Witcher snorts and offers one brawny, bloody, scarred hand. “You’re the new king. Every fucker closer to the throne turned out to be in on the fucking plot to kill the Wolf, so you’re up. C’mon. Mages can’t hold that portal forever.”

Griffin takes the Witcher’s hand, and is hauled to his feet without any apparent effort. “Surely there is someone else? _Anyone_ else?”

“Nobody with royal blood and the sense the gods gave geese,” the Witcher says. “And you apparently give a shit about your people and aren’t afraid to get your hands dirty, so frankly you’d be the best of a bad lot anyhow.”

“Oh,” Griffin says, and decides that since his day is already so surreal he’s almost afraid he’s fallen over in the stables and hit his head hard enough to induce hallucinations, he may as well just go along with the madness, and see what happens. He turns to Antonina and Joanna. “Please inform my mother and sisters that I have been summoned to Vizima, and will send word as soon as may be,” he says, and the women curtsey, eyes wide.

Griffin squares his shoulders and steps through the portal, into the throne room of Vizima Castle.

The marble floor is sticky with blood, and there’s a headless body slumped atop the throne. There are other bodies stacked, not terribly neatly, off to one side. What looks like most of the surviving nobility of Temeria - those who spend time at court, at least - are huddled near the great doors, staring in shocked terror at the _dozens_ of Witchers scattered around the room, all with swords held ready in their hands and grim, furious expressions.

Griffin swallows bile. Ye gods, how could Henselt have been such a fool?

“My lord Griffin!” someone cries, sounding _desperately_ relieved, and he turns to see a man in the king’s livery hurrying towards him. He vaguely recognizes the fellow: if Griffin recalls correctly, he was the archivist who recorded Griffin’s father’s death and Griffin’s own ascension to the baronial seat, a dust-dry sort of man who lives for his duty. The archivist goes to one knee as soon as he reaches Griffin, seizing one of Griffin’s hands and kissing the back of it, seeming not to notice either the dust and straw flecking Griffin’s skin or the blood now staining the knee of his trousers.

Griffin takes a deep breath. _It’s just like running a barony, only a hell of a lot bigger_ , he tells himself, trying very hard to believe it. _This is just - a crisis, like the time the mill caught fire. The first step is to not panic. The second is to pretend you know what the hell you’re doing. The third is to keep everyone else calm._

“Up on your feet, man,” he says, making his voice gentle and stern, the tone his father taught him to use in a crisis. “This is no time to grovel. Let’s get this mess into some sort of order, shall we?”

“Aye, your majesty,” the archivist says, rising and giving Griffin an almost reverent look.

“First things first, let’s move this to the lesser hall,” Griffin decides, raising his voice enough that the huddled nobles can hear. He knows there _is_ a lesser hall: it’s where he made his oath to Henselt, as he wasn’t nearly important enough to warrant the use of the throne room. “Someone find me my steward -” gods he hopes the man isn’t _dead_ , but surely Henselt wouldn’t have involved a steward in the folly that led to this mess - “and whoever yet lives of the old king’s council.”

One of the best-dressed of the nobles puffs himself up and sputters, “And who are you to give us orders, then?”

Griffin sees several Witchers tense, their swords catching the light as they begin to rise. He gives the objector his very best quelling look, hoping nobody can tell how terrified he is that another foolish word will set off a _second_ bloodbath. “I am Griffin of the line of Gardik, by the grace of the White Wolf now king of Temeria.”

And never mind how little he _wants_ the position - gods, he was perfectly happy as a minor baron! He has _never_ desired high rank or great power, or the headaches that come with them. But - _You do the job that’s put in front of you_ , as his father used to say, and if Griffin doesn’t step up, he doesn’t like to think what the Witchers might decide to do with the rest of Temeria’s nobility.

He’s not worried about the _peasantry_. The White Wolf is quite famous for his mercy to peasants. But he’s equally famous for his disdain for the nobility, and Griffin doesn’t think most of the Witchers in Vizima are feeling _merciful_ just now.

“I would _prefer_ to take your oaths of fealty in the lesser hall,” Griffin continues, trying to sound as calm and collected as though this were a perfectly ordinary day. “But if you wish to quibble, then you may give them here, amid these reminders of the folly of treason.”

The objecter blanches. “Ah. I. No, your majesty, that won’t be...won’t be necessary.”

“Good,” Griffin says. “Then let us adjourn to the lesser hall, and I will hear your oaths - to me, and to the White Wolf of the North, by whose mercy we all yet live to swear any oath at all.”

*

Somewhere quite far from Vizima, a sorceress straightens from her scrying basin and shakes his head. “Well, _that_ didn’t work,” she says. “Pity. I didn’t see the White Wolf anywhere, and Kaer Morhen’s still shielded to hell and back so I can’t _check_ , but from what I overheard, he’s not _dead_ , and apparently even with him incapacitated, his army is still the most dangerous force of its size on the continent. I think we’d better cut our losses on this one, sire.”

She turns to see that her monarch is looking, not at her, but at a slip of parchment in his hand; at the emperor’s feet, a man in nondescript clothing is groveling.

“Perhaps it is just as well,” the emperor says softly. “Look at this.”

The sorceress steps closer to examine the parchment: sketched on it is quite a good portrait of a young woman, perhaps thirteen years of age. She looks familiar. “The Princess Pavetta, sire?”

“If Our agent is not lying,” the emperor says - the groveling man shakes his head furiously - “then no. The Princess Ciri, of Kaer Morhen.”

“It is she, sire,” the groveling man blurts. “I drew it myself, this past summer, when I encountered her and her escort upon the road in Kaedwen. I swear my life upon it.”

“She is the very _image_ of Pavetta,” the sorceress marvels. She had the pleasure of meeting the princess, once, years ago in Cintra.

“So she is,” the emperor says, very quietly, and tucks the parchment into a pocket of his robes. “You will cease all efforts to undermine the Warlord of the North, and send word to that effect to all Our agents in the northern lands.”

“Sire?” the sorceress says, more startled than she has been in many years.

“The child lived,” the emperor murmurs. “This changes things.” He smiles, a thin mirthless curve of his lips. “We think We may actually have to try diplomacy.”

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate title, with thanks to WhatTheHeckHaveIDone: Griffin's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad, Incredibly Freaking Surreal Day.
> 
> Many thanks to everyone for your comments, kudos, and support. I appreciate it more than I can say. Please feel free to come say hello on tumblr or discord!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Minting of a Gold-Crowned King](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26257879) by [AceOfTigers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfTigers/pseuds/AceOfTigers)
  * [hooked](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27675439) by [peaktotheocean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peaktotheocean/pseuds/peaktotheocean)




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